


John Sheppard's Quick and Easy Guide to Ascension

by coffeesuperhero



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-19
Updated: 2009-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesuperhero/pseuds/coffeesuperhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saving lives with Sheppard's magical mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Sheppard's Quick and Easy Guide to Ascension

_**Fic: SGA: John Sheppard's Quick and Easy Guide To Ascension**_  
**Title:** John Sheppard's Quick and Easy Guide to Ascension  
**Fandom:** Stargate Atlantis  
**Characters/Pairing:** McKay/Sheppard  
**Rating:** R-ish  
**Spoilers:** Through 3x14, "The Tao of Rodney."   
**Summary:** Saving lives with Sheppard's magical mouth.   
**Disclaimers:** I do not own anything or anyone mentioned in this fic. I am not profiting from the writing or posting of this fiction. All these characters belong to Brad Wright, Robert C. Cooper, Sci Fi, Sky One, The Movie Network, NBC Universal and their various subsidiaries.   
**A/N:** My first swing at SGA fic! For [](http://sabinelagrande.livejournal.com/profile)[**sabinelagrande**](http://sabinelagrande.livejournal.com/), who introduced me to the total crack that is SGA, because friends don't let friends live without the Hair. Posted to [](http://community.livejournal.com/mckay_sheppard/profile)[**mckay_sheppard**](http://community.livejournal.com/mckay_sheppard/) (with thanks to [](http://gaffsie.livejournal.com/profile)[**gaffsie**](http://gaffsie.livejournal.com/) for directing me hither). Cross-posted to [](http://community.livejournal.com/smut_tuesdays/profile)[**smut_tuesdays**](http://community.livejournal.com/smut_tuesdays/).

Rodney's really tired of the universe trying to kill him. All right, fine, whatever, he knows (of course he knows, because he was a genius _before_ this, his most recent interaction with lethal Ancient technology, bestowed upon him an intelligence even greater than genius, which is a level of knowledge that he doesn't have a word for, but that's only because his advanced brain can't be bothered with something as petty as a _name_, obviously, especially since he's dying, _again_) that the universe may be a complex system (well, complex in the sense that most people who aren't as gifted as he is may think it's complex), but it doesn't really have a sentience or a will, because it's not a _thing_, it's a system, so it can't really be trying to kill him.

"This isn't working," he snaps for the millionth time, and bolts up from his supine position on John's floor. (He knows that really, it's not the _millionth_ time, it's only the thirty-seventh time in the last twelve hours, but Rodney feels that even a super-genius is allowed some hyperbole when he's approaching the hour of his death, and if he's not, well, there may not be a point in living anyway.) "I mean, in the last five minutes, while I was supposed to be meditating and contemplating _ferris wheels_, I have just proved M-theory, thought of an algorithm to increase the efficiency of the shield for the next storm cycle, and built a better mouse-trap. It's no use, I can't turn if off, I don't even want to. Just give my best to Jeannie, and it's been nice knowing you."

"Rodney," John begins, "if you'll just--"

"No, no," Rodney says, pulling himself to his feet with a long-suffering sigh, "it's fine. I'm resigned to my fate. What's ascension got to offer me, anyway? I'm just gonna spend the rest of the time I have left thinking of as many things as possible that will make the Nobel committee reconsider their position on conferring awards posthumously. Oh!" Rodney holds up his index finger suddenly. "I just thought of a cure for a disease that hasn't been discovered yet. I should write that down."

"I've got an idea," John tells him, reaching out to grab Rodney's arm and pulling him down onto the bed. "Why don't you pipe down, and stop being so defeatist, and we'll try this until we find something that works." He yanks the monitor off Rodney's head. "And keep that damn thing off, will you? It's obviously not helping."

Rodney grabs the monitor back and holds it to his chest briefly, cradling it as though it were a first-edition Batman comic. "Look, even if you _had_ joined Mensa, there's no way that you could come up with something to save me that I haven't already thought of, okay? What brilliant plan could you possibly have concocted in the last thirty seconds that will help me maintain a low enough EEG frequency that I can avoid certain death?"

"Well," John drawls, "I seem to remember you going pretty slack-jawed the last time you talked about that girl in your chess club in college. In fact, I think you left the table without finishing your pudding cup, so I doubt there was too much in way of brain activity going on that evening."

"Oh, great," Rodney exclaims, throwing up his hands and nearly tossing away the precious monitor in the process. "Your brilliant plan is to what, have me masturbate my way to ascension?"

"Not exactly," John says, and without further prelude, grabs Rodney's shirt and pulls him forward into a kiss.

Rodney's never kissed a man before. He's kissed girls (of course he's kissed girls, it isn't like this is his first time around the block, or anything, because obviously even a super-genius can think of a way to get some, even if that way may involve doing algebra homework for a hot blonde in exchange for what ends up being just a peck on the cheek), but this is different (naturally, since it's a guy, or maybe not naturally, although, depending on the culture, it could be), and this is _hotter_, and he thinks (well, it may not be thinking so much as a semi-lucid awareness of self) that he has an erection. And then, John's tongue slides against his, and yes, the results are in, he definitely has an erection, which is odd, really, because usually that takes longer (not that there's anything physically wrong with him, but when one possesses such an advanced brain, well, sacrifices must be made, and one can't have everything running at top speed, though now that he's even smarter, maybe he can come up with a way to improve that), but sure enough, he's hard, and it actually seems to be harder (no pun intended, of course) to think or even move, because John's teeth are tugging against his lower lip, and it's the best feeling he's had since he discovered that he could save twenty-three cents at Tim Horton's if he ordered the combo with the plain bagel and a large coffee and a side of cream cheese instead of ordering all the constituent parts of the meal separately.

"Dammit," John mutters, and leans back, shaking his head.

"What? What did I do? I mean, I thought that was okay, I didn't, you know, kiss your teeth or anything, not that I've ever done that," Rodney babbles.

"It was fine," John says, though Rodney doesn't find his tone at all reassuring (if it was really fine, after all, John's tongue would still be in his mouth, or maybe other places). "I just thought maybe you'd stop thinking for a minute. Jesus, Rodney, you really can't turn it off, can you?" He stands up and starts pacing. "I guess we're back to ferris wheels."

"Wait!" Rodney hopes this doesn't sound too desperate, but it occurs to him that this might be his only shot at living, so surely John will understand if his hand shakes a little when he reaches up and places it on John's arm. "You could try something else. I mean, you might be on to something here."

"What did you have in mind, exactly?" John stops pacing, turns, and stares down at him, and suddenly Rodney's mouth is very dry.

"Um," Rodney squeaks. "Well. I don't know, _exactly_. I mean, this was your show. You could, um, you know. Look," he bursts out, agitated, "you didn't have to stop so soon. Maybe I just needed a minute to adjust." He sighs and flops back on John's bed, letting the monitor fall to the floor. "Look, it doesn't matter--"

"Shut up," John orders, leaning over him, and Rodney is unable to continue his disparaging monologue, because John's mouth captures his again, and this time Rodney doesn't even wonder if he likes it, because the parts of his brain that routinely govern that type of activity are currently busy processing the pleasure overload brought on by the weight of John's body pressed against his. His arms come up and encircle John's back, fingers exploring muscle through the sturdy fibers of John's shirt. John tugs his mouth away from Rodney's lips, trailing quick kisses down the line of his jaw until his lips are on Rodney's neck, sucking gently, and Rodney's hips twitch up involuntarily, causing his penis to brush against the firm line of John's hipbone. He groans, fingers tightening against John's back, and he realizes with a burst of joy that he hasn't had a thought, not one, since John climbed on top of him.

"It's working!" he exclaims, excited, and John pulls his lips away from Rodney's neck and gives him a look. "Oh," Rodney says. "Whoops. Sorry. Uh, carry on?" he requests, voice hopeful, and John rolls his eyes and sits up.

"I think it's time for phase two," John tells him, and carefully plants one knee on either side of Rodney's hips. "But I'm warning you, Rodney," he says, fingers working at undoing Rodney's trousers, "if you start talking again, I will stop, and there is no phase three. Understood?"

Rodney tries to reply, but John's fingers curl around him before he can speak, and his brain just short-circuits completely when John's hand starts moving up and down. Well, not completely, he thinks, since he's still breathing, which means that his brain is quite obviously still working, as anyone with even half of his normal intellect would know. He vows that if this works he will resume human form and badger John into considering the possibility that _he_ should ascend, too, because then they can just do this forever.

"_McKay_," John growls, mid-stroke, "I can practically hear you thinking. Cut it out," he warns, punctuating his words with a swipe of his thumb across the sensitive head of Rodney's penis, "or I stop."

Rodney whimpers in response, one of his hands clutching uselessly at John's shoulder. He's gotta stop thinking, or John's gonna stop stroking, and at this point it's not just that this is his best chance at survival, it's that John's hand feels really, really _good_ down there, better, in fact, than anything else he can think of-- not that he's thinking, of course-- because John needs to keep doing that, or better yet, maybe he could do that with his _mouth_. Rodney decides, as he imagines John's lips in place of his hand, that if this doesn't work (though if John really did put his tongue there, he thinks-- not that he's thinking, of course-- that he would probably just ascend immediately in a moment of pure delirious happiness), he will not tell Elizabeth that he even briefly considered that the road to ascension might possibly be paved with fellatio, and that if the Ancients had just had John Sheppard's mouth handy, they wouldn't have needed that stupid machine in the first place. But he's not thinking, he tells himself, or at least, he's not thinking of anything except how nice it would be if John could read _his_ mind, because then maybe he wouldn't have to imagine what John's mouth would feel like.

Rodney remembers, then, that he can read minds, and he knows he is supposed to be clearing his mind, and that his life depends on it, but he can't help it, he wants to know what John is thinking, particularly if what John is thinking is what Rodney is thinking (not that he's thinking, of course). He closes his eyes and drifts for a moment, listening, and when he catches the thread of John's thoughts, Rodney sits straight up in astonishment, nearly knocking John off the bed.

"You want me to what?" Rodney says, eyes wide and staring. He needs to know that he didn't make this up, because if he didn't, he will absolutely comply with John's unspoken request, but first, Rodney wants some confirmation that he hasn't made this up.

John, to Rodney's dismay, lets go and props his hands on his hips. "You were reading my thoughts," he says, and Rodney bites his lip, because John sounds a little disappointed, and if John sounds disappointed, this may be over, and if that's the case, then he will regret this moment right up until the second his heart stops.

"Yes," Rodney gulps, "I was. Maybe I couldn't help it! Did you consider that? I mean, you were a little loud, you know, with your thoughts, when you were thinking that you wanted me to, ah, you know, do that thing you wanted me to do with my mouth on your, you know." Rodney nods his head in the general direction of John's hips.

"Cock, Rodney," John says, smirking. "Or dick, or wang, or 'The Little Colonel', whatever. "What do you call it? A _member_?"

Rodney can feel his face heating. "Of course not," he manages to say, with as much dignity as he can muster. "Listen, it's not like the word really matters, okay? I mean, if there was something you wanted, then you should speak up, because I'm probably going to be dead by tomorrow, and beyond that, well, I really hope that you're not into that."

John rolls his eyes. "I'm gonna ignore all of this," he says, his hand reaching for Rodney again, "because we're trying to save your life, here."

Rodney puts his hand on John's wrist. "No, seriously," he interrupts, though he can barely believe that he's about to let anything come between his penis and John's fingers. "What I mean to say is, I want to do this."

"You want to suck my--"

"Yes, that," Rodney snaps, a little past irritated from the persistent thumping of blood in his groin and the continued absence of John's fingers to soothe away the ache. "Are you gonna shut up and let me, or do I have to hear you drone on for the rest of my life?"

John grins and pivots away from Rodney, flipping onto his back on the bed, arms folded under his head. "Get to it," he encourages, nudging Rodney's shoulder with his elbow, and Rodney just stares blankly back for a moment, because suddenly he finds that he's nervous.

He can do this (he can do anything, because he's even more of a genius today than he was yesterday, and he was pretty damn smart yesterday), all he has to do is think, because now he _can_ think, since John isn't touching him anymore, so he's assuming there's no longer a moratorium on thinking, which is good, because if he's about to do what he thinks he's about to do, he's going to need all the thoughts he can muster (not that he doesn't know what to do, because he does, since he owns this equipment, after all), because just the idea of John against his mouth is already threatening to just shut his brain off, and if he's going to do this, well, he figures it wouldn't be very polite if he ascended without finishing what he started. He looks over at John, who is still grinning, but is also shaking his head.

"What?" Rodney demands. "I'm getting there!"

"How about," John suggests, chuckling, "I give you some pointers, huh? You can just owe me."

"No, really, I--" Rodney begins, but then John's mouth is on his again, and John is pushing him back down on the bed, and he has to stop thinking, just in case John decides to enforce that little rule against thoughts.

John crawls down the short length of his body, hands sliding down until he reaches Rodney's hips, and Rodney can feel John dragging his trousers and underwear down to the floor and tugging them off. Rodney hears them land somewhere across the room, and that's the last truly conscious thought he has for the next, well, actually he has no idea much time transpires between the moment he feels John's tongue on the tip of his penis and the moment when he can no longer feel anything at all except the warmth of John's mouth and the blood rushing back to his brain.

And then John is standing up quickly, and Rodney thinks he can hear voices, and he thinks maybe it worked. He thinks he's glowing. It might be the candlelight, but he's pretty sure he's glowing, and the voices are a dull rush in his ears now. Rodney doesn't really understand what they're saying, because he's too blissed out to comprehend syntax, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to ascend, to exist beyond a corporeal state where anything as insignificant as human language really matters. He hears someone laughing, then, and sees John reach down to tug at a sheet that isn't there, and it occurs to him that he's naked from the waist down. This is when he starts to realize that he's still here, in this body, because if his conscious self is still aware enough to be embarrassed, then he's, well, conscious, and that means he's still human, and possibly still terminal. Also, he realizes that he's really, really hungry, so even if the slow flush creeping across his face weren't enough of a clue that he hasn't achieved the goal of the Ancients, the gnawing hunger in his belly would be. He blinks hard, turns his head in the direction of the voices, and tries to listen.

"Ohhh," Zelenka is saying, bobbing his head toward Rodney in understanding. "Ohn gahluhboi."

"We are sorry to interrupt this... ritual," Rodney hears Teyla say, "but we believe that Dr. Zelenka may have found a solution."

At that, Rodney's eyes start to focus on the people standing in the doorway. He tries not to stare at anyone in particular, because he's still half-naked, and that's still really embarrassing, even if (well, maybe especially if) this is his team.

"So he's gonna be okay," John says, and Rodney thinks he can hear concern in his friend's voice. He's touched, really (physically, emotionally, whatever, he thinks), and he hopes that this means, if he makes it out of this alive, that he can perhaps come up with an excuse, however spurious, for this to happen again, though maybe without the mortal peril, next time.

"Yes, yes," Carson avers, staring fixedly at the floor. "We just need to get him to the machine, and he'll be fine."

"Thanks to the concerted, ah, efforts, of Dr. Zelenka," Weir explains. Rodney can see that she is also staring at the floor. "He has been laboring tirelessly, to, ah, find a solution."

"So has Sheppard," Ronon snorts, not even attempting to hide his amusement.

"Yes, thank you, Ronon, for calling attention to that," Weir responds.

"Listen, thanks for coming to explain all of this, but if you could be so kind," John says, inclining his head towards the door, "I'm sure that Dr. McKay would like to be fully clothed for his little trip down to the machine."

"Of course," Weir says. "Um, just have him at the machine as soon as he's... able."

Rodney can hear more snickering from Ronon before the door slides closed and they're alone. "That was less embarrassing than it could have been," he says. "I suppose."

"Yeah," John laughs, "but I think I'll let you explain the ins and outs of this little ritual to Teyla when she asks."

"Hey!" Rodney exclaims, dragging himself into a sitting position. "This was all your idea. You should have to explain."

"But I'm not a highly evolved super-genius," John points out. "You probably _understand_ it better than I do, right?"

Rodney decides to ignore that. Can I have my pants back?" he requests, and John scoops them up and tosses them onto the bed.

"How long have you got before you're dead, anyway?" John asks, as Rodney tries to remember how to dress himself.

"Oh, you know, twelve hours? That's just an estimate," Rodney says, managing to stick one foot in one pant-leg, "but, you know, it could be more. Why do you ask?"

John just grins at him and flops back down onto the bed. "Because, McKay. You owe me one."


End file.
